


There's a Land of Begin Again

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For a few seconds, John stood in front of the bench, frozen in place.  A cloud of smoke billowed from where the bomb had hit and the first wild shriek from inside the soupy grey layers was enough to spur John into action. His stick fell from his hand and he ran forwards, shielding his eyes with his forearm.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>‘Sherlock?’ he yelled, heading in the direction of where Sherlock had been thrown. ‘Sherlock!’</i>
</p>
<p>November-December, 1944.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Land of Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! Life happened, and it's rubbish, but I finally got chance to work on this. I hope you enjoy this instalment. :) The title is from [There's a Land of Begin Again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEoNdMVD_p0).

For a few seconds, John stood in front of the bench, frozen in place. A cloud of smoke billowed from where the bomb had hit and the first wild shriek from inside the soupy grey layers was enough to spur John into action. His stick fell from his hand and he ran forwards, shielding his eyes with his forearm.

‘Sherlock?’ he yelled, heading in the direction of where Sherlock had been thrown. ‘Sherlock!’ 

John side-stepped some shrapnel and picked his way quickly through the rubble to where the bomb had hit at the heart of the street. ‘Sherlock!’

A deep groan came from John’s right. 

‘Sherlock?’ He moved towards the familiar noise, taking his jacket off and beating the smoke back with it, squinting down at the ground. 

Sherlock lay atop a small pile of bricks, sprawled on his front, coat twisted around his limp form. ‘John,’ he murmured, gritting his teeth and rolling onto his back just as John fell to his knees beside him. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Sherlock hissed, clutching his ribs, staring up at the sky through the haze of smoke.

‘I’m here, I’m here, oh thank God,’ John said, exhaling on a long sigh, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His chest heaved as he breathed, relieved, reaching a hand out to stroke Sherlock’s head, checking for any bleeding as he did so.

‘Five years without so much as a bloody scratch and now this,’ Sherlock said, laughing weakly, grunting when a fresh wave of pain hit him.

‘You’re hurt,’ John stated, cupping Sherlock’s jaw.

‘Yes, thank you, _doctor_ , a bomb just threw me through the air.’

They both looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock’s dirty face and John’s clean one split into (slightly hysterical) grins. John’s shoulders shook with laughter and Sherlock wheezed as he tried to join in.

‘It’s my ribs,’ he said once they’d both calmed down. ‘I think I’ve broken some of them.’

The noise that had until now been in the background began to escalate.

‘Here, let me.’ John bundled his jacket up and rested it underneath Sherlock’s head before reaching down to undo the buttons of his coat and jacket. John ran his hand lightly down Sherlock’s chest and torso, applying the barest amount of pressure to each rib and making a mental note whenever Sherlock winced or made a pained sound.

‘Four or five fractured or broken and you’ll have some bruising on the others.’ John looked around for the first time since finding Sherlock, now that the smoke had begun to clear. Several people lay unconscious, some trapped by rubble. One elderly man bled from his head out onto the bricks and glass and wood he lay on top of.

‘Look,’ John said, taking Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it tightly. ‘You’re fine.’ He looked around again. ‘A lot of these people aren’t.’

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said, waving his hand. ‘Go, go and help. I just got caught by the blast.’

‘I’ll help you up, come on,’ John said gently, easing Sherlock into an upright position, grabbing his jacket that was now covered in dust. ‘Let’s get you standing.’

John got to his feet and braced his weight, offering his hands to Sherlock, who used them to help himself stand (albeit after a lot of groaning and swearing). 

‘Where’s my hat?’ Sherlock mumbled, resting his right hand over the worst of his injuries.

‘You’ll live without it,’ John replied, stroking Sherlock’s upper arm. ‘Get yourself to hospital and get examined properly. I love you,’ he whispered. 

‘And I you.’ Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. ‘Go.’

Sherlock watched as John nodded and walked over to the nearest wounded person, whose arm was bleeding freely through her cardigan. He bent to kneel next to her and rested a comforting hand lightly on her back. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Sherlock heard him say. ‘I’m a doctor. I can help.’

***

It was early evening by the time Sherlock made it back to the flat, having limped into the back of an ambulance to get his ribs looked at at a hospital, as per John’s wishes. He made it through the front door and let out a ragged breath, hand hovering over his ribs. He grunted as he shut the door, looking up at the seventeen steps with a disgusted expression on his face.

‘Boys? Is that you?’ Mrs Hudson’s door opened and the woman herself peeked out from behind it. ‘Sherlock!’ she gasped, wiping her floury hands on her apron. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Just the blast from a V2, Mrs Hudson, nothing to worry about.’

‘Oh, _Sherlock_! What happened?’ she asked again. ‘Are you alright? Where’s Doctor Watson?’

Sherlock gritted his teeth and leant against the door, trying to ignore the sick feeling the pain was giving him. The painkillers he’d been prescribed at the hospital were having little to no effect, most likely due to his previous abuse of such drugs at university. 

‘The Nazis invaded Poland, my ribs will heal in six to eight weeks and Doctor Watson is unharmed and has remained at the scene to help.’

‘No need for cheek, young man.’ Mrs Hudson fixed him with an admonishing look. ‘Now come in and rest until Doctor Watson gets back; I’ll make you something to eat.’

‘Stew will do nicely,’ Sherlock grumbled, walking slowly into Mrs Hudson’s flat.

***

‘How’s your pain?’ John asked late the next morning as he helped Sherlock, who had spent the night asleep upright on Mrs Hudson’s sofa, up the stairs to 221b.

‘Manageable,’ leaning on John, who was standing straight and strong, for support. ‘Tired?’

‘Not particularly.’ They reached the top of the stairs and John unlocked the door, stepping back to let Sherlock through first. Dust motes danced in the pale winter sunlight that streamed in through the windows, owing to the fact that neither of them had been there to do the blackout the night before. After a lot of panting and swearing from Sherlock, ten minutes later, both men were sitting at the dining table next to the window, sipping tea.

‘Was it horrible?’ Sherlock asked, scanning the front page of the newspaper that Mrs Hudson had fetched for them, reporting on the bombing. ‘Certainly sounds it.’

‘You did very well to get off so lightly, let’s put it that way,’ John said softly, turning his head so he could look at the paper as well. 

‘You’re covered in blood.’

John glanced down at himself. The front of his shirt and the thighs of his trousers had gone a dark coppery colour from the old blood stains he’d acquired whilst tying tourniquets and applying pressure to open wounds and digging little bits of shrapnel out of flesh.

‘So I am,‘ John said, drinking some more of his tea. ‘Ought to have a bath, really.’

‘You really ought,‘ Sherlock agreed, watching John’s left hand with narrowed eyes. John poured some more tea from the pot into his mug. The pot didn’t shake. The tea didn’t spill. Sherlock drank from his cup and flicked the newspaper open, scanning the lines of text without really reading the words on the page.

‘Are we just going to ignore the fact you can walk without limping and your hand’s not shaking?’ he demanded after a couple of minutes of silence, as though it had been a great effort for him to hold back for that length of time.

A slow, genuine smile stretched across John’s face.

‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at Sherlock, instead pretending to be interested in reading the headings in the newspaper upside-down. ‘We are going to ignore it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s rather fitting, isn’t it? Disappearing all of a sudden... it’s almost like it was never there.’

Sherlock reached forwards and grabbed John’s hand, wincing at the too-sudden movement he’d made. He squeezed John’s fingers tightly. ‘I love you,’ he said, pressing his lips to John’s fingertips, breathing in the carbolic scent of John’s freshly-washed hands.

John pushed Sherlock’s fringe to one side and gently stroked the side of his face. ‘You need a wash, too,’ he said, standing up to lean over the table and kiss Sherlock’s forehead. ‘Finish your tea and I’ll help you get undressed.’

Sherlock kissed the inside of John’s wrist before John picked up their tea things and started to walk towards the kitchen. ‘If you insist, Doctor Watson,’ he said. 

From the kitchen doorway, John smiled over his shoulder. ‘Oh, I most certainly do, Mister Holmes.’

***

A week later, a letter dropped onto the mat in the hallway downstairs. Sherlock, who had been ordered to remain in London for a fortnight to convalesce, brought it up to the flat after one of his frequent exercises to try and ease the dull pain he felt when he did anything more strenuous than sit still and occasionally read a paper (four cases solved this week and counting).

‘Letter for you,’ he mumbled, handing it to John before shuffling into the kitchen, one of his large hands shielding his ribs.

John raised his eyebrows and turned it over, tearing the seal at the back. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Sherlock as he unfolded the letter, who was now sitting at the kitchen table with a crossword. John ended up not hearing a word of Sherlock’s reply.

_Dear Doctor Watson... in the light of your assistance at the New Cross incident last week... pleased to offer you a position at The Royal London... emergency medicine with a view to moving to general surgery... telephone and ask for Dr. Rosen... we look forward to hearing from you..._

‘Sherlock,’ John said, inadvertently interrupting whatever it was Sherlock was saying. ‘Sherlock, read this.’ He thrust the letter under Sherlock’s nose and read along with him, shaking his head. ‘I... I can’t believe it. Over a year I’ve been home, looking for work, and...’

‘Oh, John, this is marvellous.’ He glanced up at John, a look of pride on his face. ‘I’m so pleased. This is... it’s just marvellous.’

John bent and kissed Sherlock on the lips, breaking away to grin again. ‘Something useful to do, at long last,’ he said, kissing Sherlock again. ‘I wonder when they want me to start...’

Sherlock grinned, touching his palm to John’s cheek. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he murmured as John eagerly read the letter again, stroking John’s face with his thumb, certain that John wasn’t even listening. ‘Utterly wonderful.’


End file.
